If You're Happy I'm
by medea42
Summary: Huddy House/Cuddy - may be spoilers for those who haven't seen the last ep. A speculation on what the next episode will be about with those two, a little bit more of a window. This hijacked my brain, I had to do my own take.


**"If you're happy, I'm."**

_by medea42_

_This is a work of fanfiction; it is intended as a tribute to the original production by Fox networks. House M.D. and its characters are not mine, and I claim no legal or creative rights to them. This is not intended as an ongoing fiction; this is a one shot story._

It wasn't about comfort. Comfort was something you give when there's nothing else to offer, like a pillow stuffed with synthetic fiber. It might soften the blow, but it offered no benefits. He wasn't there to comfort Cuddy. That was Wilson's job, to offer the polite lies and the "there theres." Wilson was good at comfort; maybe it was because Wilson had to cushion so many of his patients for death, while House had to use harsh truth and rip open old wounds to keep his alive. He was surprised Wilson wasn't there when Cuddy allowed him to stumble in.

And so there were words. He'd meant what he'd said to Cuddy, both before and after. She would be a terrible mom. She would be a wonderful mother. No parent was ever perfect – he'd seen scores of horrendously screwed up people who were both ridiculous and sublime in their parenting. Cuddy would be one of them, and any kid would have a 50/50 chance of a decent childhood with her. That was enough to make a good mother. There was still the 50% chance of her being career driven, selfish, tooth-and-nail. All this just considered Cuddy; this didn't even take into account the genetic bombs an adopted baby might hide.

But Cuddy was like Wilson. She didn't see the whole grid. "Why do you have to negate everything?"

That caught him off guard. She was right. The whole picture, the picture he took into account when considering every angle, it did negate. He always assumed the opposite of the other person's assumptions. Was there a reason? How did he start doing that? "I don't know."

And suddenly she was there, before him, not his boss, not his nemesis, not his sometimes-mommy, not even really his friend. She was just a woman, completely naked and raw and in pain, and he was just a man. In that moment, he understood her completely. The one thing Gregory House understood was pain. Pain didn't lie. Pain was the truth willing its way out from all organs of the body. He kissed her. She kissed him back.

It wasn't a sudden romantic impulse – it was his pain recognizing her pain, and her pain recognizing his. The hurt had escaped him, found a mate, and moved wildly for a was hurting together, loneliness together, devastation together. A wasteland moved through them both. And then the kiss broke and they were back in themselves, looking at each other. There was nothing else to do after that. "Good night," he said, and stumbled on out. It was his pain finding her pain; nothing was left to say to each other unless they resorted to social lies.

"Good night," he heard behind him. He could hear her voice already filling with tears still to be shed.

It should have stopped there. In a perfect world, where he wasn't a limping Vicodin addict and where teen mothers give up their babies according to plan, it would have stopped. You don't need to talk about a kiss the next day. You don't need to discuss it at all until it starts happening on a regular basis. When kisses happen between people that have known each other for years, you shrug it off as one of those biological impulses that happen from time to time and you move on – perhaps you avoid being alone with that person for awhile, and the conversation is strained, over-polite, professionally focused. But you absolutely do not discuss it.

Sex on the other hand, demands a conversation. His motorcycle was in view on the sidewalk when he found himself abruptly reversing direction. He wasn't even sure he felt his leg. In that instant the endorphins from kissing a beautiful woman overwhelmed even the numbness left by Vicodin. He didn't knock this time, he just opened the door, walked up to Cuddy who was stood at the wall with tears rolling down her face, and kissed her again. And she again kissed him back.

When you kiss someone, getting caught up in the moment is valid: kissing is a pure emotional reaction, there is no biological impulse behind it, it does not lead to procreation or even necessarily heavy hand-holding. But sex, no matter how spontaneous, is always in some way pre-meditated. Cuddy knew about the prostitutes and there was a wordless exchange over condom use before his cane was propped up on her night table and every aggression, sorrow and frustration was taken out on one another using only the language of their bodies.

Then, they were both finished, and while Cuddy watched silently House put on his clothing, grabbed his cane and left.

He slept off the night in his apartment. It didn't hit him until he rolled into the hospital parking lot: he had had sex with Cuddy. As was the post-coital tradition among women who weren't hookers, he was going to have to talk to her about it. He usually avoided that conversation with women, where the sex was totally expected, more meditated, where the entire interaction was foreplay. But this was Cuddy, and it would be different in that it would not be different. She would want to have a typical conversation, filled with faux-honesty and words like "respect" and "I really really like you." She didn't like him. That's why he liked her.

He especially dreaded the possibility that she wanted to discuss the potential of their future together. More likely, though, he would have to sign some forms acknowledging that they had sex and that he would not sue the hospital for that. She was, at her core, an administrator, and the obligations of her job would force her to chase him around until he signed something. If nothing else, it would afford him some personal amusement and annoy the living hell out of her, thus restoring status quo.

The team would of course want to know. He made sure he was the last to arrive, and locked the glass doors behind him before they began the differential. Cuddy came by, furious, pounding on the glass. "House!" she screamed. She was close to homicidal already. This did keep her mind off the baby.

"What's with her?" Taub asked.

"Oh, I hit that last night and now I can't get her off my jock," House answered. He smiled to himself at the wide-eyed expressions of horror in the room. That was just enough truth to throw them. This also meant that none of his team would ask him about it, ever.

This way, also, Cuddy wasn't thinking about what she'd lost. She'd be too busy today thinking about what she might lose. And he knew he'd have her thinking about him all day - that was more than enough compensation if it turned out he hadn't been adequate as a lover.


End file.
